Chapter 1
Guy
There’s a killer on my doorstep, and she brought mini muffins.
Standing in the cold, a white fur hat balanced on perfectly curled blonde hair, Monty grins up at me. Her lips are red, her eyes are bright green, and anyone who didn’t know her would think she was a real-life, in-the-flesh angel.
The truth couldn’t be more different.
Narrowing my eyes, I resist the temptation to search this woman for weapons. She’s more than a little deadly, and while that may have worked in my favor the night she saved my daughter’s life three years ago, it isn’t a comforting thought now that we’re alone and she seemingly knows where I live.
But the scariest thing of all is that I’m almost glad to see her, because she’s delaying what I was about to do.
“Hello, Chief,” she purrs. “Aren’t you going to invite me in?”
Easy answer.
I fold my arms. “No.”
She tenses her jaw, her smile vanishing. “Rude.”
Resting my shoulder against the doorframe, I look down at her. I’m a big guy, always have been. I was a quarterback in high school and made sure to maintain my size and power so I can be an effective cop. People rarely cross me because I can bench press four hundred pounds, and I look like I can.
But Monty seems to have no issue with it at all.
She bats her eyelashes, gently swinging the basket of mini muffins, a coy smile lifting her lips. “Please?”
My instinct is to refuse her again, but in the years since I met her, Monty has never once come here. So, despite not wanting to invite a known serial killer into my house—I’m curious.
“What exactly is it you need?”
She shrugs. “An alibi.” I reach for the door to close it, and she slaps her palm against the wood, a laugh bursting out of her. “I’m kidding!” I scowl, and she takes that as an invitation, strolling by me. She smells like cherries and brings in a chill, as if the frost follows her. Maybe that was a side-effect of selling her soul to the devil.
She places the mini muffins on the kitchen island, slides her knee-length black coat down her arms, and glances around. Her red dress hugs her hourglass figure, and impossibly high heels lend height to her small frame—I imagine without the shoes she’s around five foot one, so even with the added inches, she’s still just under a foot shorter than me.
She glances around as she takes off her fur hat. The open-plan bottom floor looks the same as it has since I brought Ella home thirty years ago. The coffee table is from a flea market, set on a worn red rug. The sofa is relatively new, L-shaped and tucked into the corner, not that I use itoften. I prefer to be active. My furniture doesn’t match, and there’s no fancy art on my walls, just pictures of Ella and me. My running shoes are battered and sitting beside an umbrella that I can’t remember buying.
My house is a home. Lived in, a bit of a mess, but it’s mine.
I shift uncomfortably as Monty slowly turns in place. It isn’t that I’m embarrassed of how or where I live, not even close, but this is the first woman I’ve had here in a long,longtime. In fact, having Monty here is reminding me just how long, and I make a mental note to download one of those dating apps Ella keeps mentioning.
“This is … quaint,” Monty says, and despite it clearly being an insult, her English accent at least softens the blow.
I close the door. “I’ll ask you one more time, Monty. What do you need?”
She drapes her coat over a chair at the kitchen island. “Do you have any wine?”
“Monty.”
She tuts, turning on her heel to face me, her hands clasped together. “Maybe I just wanted to see you. Is that so unbelievable?”
“Two days before Christmas?”
A shrug. “I was in the area, Papa Gibson. I can’t come and say hi? We’re practically family.” She steps close, her emerald gaze drifting across my face. I’ve been toe to toe with the worst kinds of people—rapists, gangsters, murderers. I don’t blink in the face of evil, but I’m struggling to maintain eye contact with Monty. There’s something quietly terrifying about her, and it isn’t because she kills men—it’s because I get the distinct impression that she somehow makes them believe they want to die at herhand. Like bleeding for her is the ultimate portrayal of their loyalty.
No matter the reason, I want her out of my house.
Why did I even let her in?
